


Accidents de Moto et Hôtels Bleus

by AQuietThinker



Category: The Darjeeling Limited (2007)
Genre: Gen, Hotels, One-Shot, Protective Siblings, Sibling Love, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24880051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AQuietThinker/pseuds/AQuietThinker
Summary: After the events in India, Francis accompanies Jack back to France. Jack- a more protective and kind brother than before- confronts Francis on the confession he had made.
Relationships: Jack Whitman & Francis Whitman
Kudos: 6





	Accidents de Moto et Hôtels Bleus

**Author's Note:**

> Hi Everyone,
> 
> I am a HUGE Wes Anderson fan, and know there are literally two works for this film. And I have plenty of other works to update... oh well.
> 
> Hope you enjoy
> 
> x)

“Why did you purposely crash your motorcycle?”

When Jack Whitman had exhaled slowly outside the bedroom door before knocking, he had thought of thirty six ways in which to convey his question. Instead, he was now standing awkwardly next to a blue, rose patterned lamp, staring at the unbandaged figure of his brother. His bluntness seemed to have struck silence within the blonde one, mouth slightly agape but with no surprise clouding in his blue eyes.

“Jack… “

“I just want to know why you did it.”

The blue set up of the room was not helping their current situation. Since he had refused to return to the Chevalier hotel when offering to accompany Francis back to France before traveling to New York, they had shared a room in an equally elegant yet strikingly blue hotel. The pallet was rich in the sad tone; pale indigo wallpapers hidden by the many opaque paintings of abstract figures, azure roses that covered intrusive patterns on the bed’s duvet, lamps and a few mantels, oxford blue etiquettes with silver linings in the tiny shampoos in the bathtub.

“Why I did it?” Francis repeated, tasting the words for his own. “There are many reasons, maybe none.”

For a split second Jack wished he had never barged into the room with such question. He should have stayed in the lobby a few more hours, observing the unique guests in all their riches waltz around with no evident purpose except for showing off their money. He had acquired more paper (a baby blue parchment with the hotel’s insignia stamped in elegant penmanship) and had continued the beginning of his written ending.

He knew Peter had longed to ask the question as well. There was no surprise that their mother had left the matter untouched, but they had both quietly discussed Francis’s sudden truth while the older one slept.

“Have you seen our nephew?” he asked, avoiding the subject when Francis did not push on.

The blonde smiled, perking up. “Not yet. Has Peter finally sent photographs?”

“He did.”

Jack sat on the mattress and passed the man a small framed picture of a surprised toddler. The arms that held him were Alice’s, nails perfectly cut and painted. However, as blue eyes observed the picture with pride, Jack’s gaze elevated into the crooked nose and zigzag line on his brother’s forehead. 

Compared to the train station mirror in India a month ago, they were cleaner and healthier; silky lines inside the rose wound, still absurdly visible. 

“He’s got Alice’s eyes, but that hair is Peters’.”

“What did the police say after you woke up in a hospital?”

He could hear Francis swallow back a sigh, knuckles tensing around the picture and setting it down on the dresser. He opened the door to the balcony and gave his back to his brother, who followed.

“I shouldn't be telling you this-”

“We made an agreement on trust, remember?” Jack prodded.

“It's not that, Jack. I trust you, but this is not my moment.” Francis mumbled. “I came here with you so that you have a fresh start in a country you so much love. I don’t want to burden you now that you have so much inspiration.”

“Well, I offered anyways.”

After settling an arm on the balcony and offering his brother a cigarette, Francis finally nodded. Jack felt a pang of relief, at least he would know something from the man that usually enjoyed spilling his words out.

“No one knew it was on purpose until I myself told you in India.” he explained, taking a long drag of the cigarette. “The motorcycle was too damaged for any mechanic to even suspect that the thing was not faulty before it happened. The police took the testimony of very few people besides myself.”

“Where you always suicidal?”

Francis huffed out some laughter that came out as an odd cough. “I’m not- I don’t know. I’m not a junkie or anything. Don’t slit my wrists. I’m just so… terribly lonely. I miss dad. I missed you guys.”

He flung the unfinished cigarette to the world below, and Jack’s eyes traced it down until it disappeared on the lamp lights of the streets.

“Peter has Alice. You had the stupid bitch of your, or at least your tragically amazing writing. I had nothing but an assistant with some whats-its-name hair disease who had no loyalty for me, just the money. Pretty shitty life to live, don't you think?”

Jack humped back, watching the smoke escaped his lips. “So you went out in the morning and decided to send yourself flying off the road.”

“It was more of a l'appel du vide.”

“How so?”

“I didn't have any specific idea until the split moment.” Francis explained. “Sure, I was probably depressed and screwed up more ways than one, but I didn't think of actually dying until I was at the top speed. I thought to myself, if I die right now, who the hell will care? Time froze.”

He himself also paused, staring up into the skyline of Paris. Jack tried not to make his worried stare to obvious, but he couldn't decipher the look on his brothers face.

“I suddenly pictured each an every moment of what would happen. I would most likely die, it would be drawn off as an accident, obviously. The funeral would be very simple, not spiritual at all. Jeezh, with our experience back in that train I now want a white floral funeral when I die.” His smile faded out. “Mom would not come. If she didn’t for her husband, why me? I thought not even you guys would care to show up. Probably send some condolences cards that Brendan would stack in the trash bin. So I just twisted the handle, pushed on the gas and closed my eyes- Jack?”

Jack didn't realize he was crying. Francis’s blue eyes were pinned on him with a terribly gentle worry.

“You really thought that?”

“Y-yeah.”

His reaction was swift as Jack buried his face into his brother’s neck and wrapping his arms tightly around his waist. Francis froze for a moment before reacting and returning the hug, perhaps a little confused.

“I’m sorry we made you feel that way.”

“I’m sorry too.”

Jack Whitman had no idea how long they remained the the embrace, but by the time both faces were wet with tears and his arms relaxed away the early rays of sun had begun overlooking Paris.

“Francis?”

“Yeah?” he said, wiping his face.

“Would you do it again?”

“Hug you?”

“No, attempt against yours life.”

Francis’s crooked teeth showed as he smiled. The wound on his nose had begun bleeding, and Jack brought up a handkerchief of royal blue to wipe it gently. 

“Why would I, with all those agreements we made?” said Francis. “I had spiritual reawakening. Besides, I owe Peter a snake and really want to read your book on us.”

Jack let his shoulders relax. Perhaps the question had not been such a terrible idea. He rested his gaze away from the city. The phone begun ringing inside the room, but he paid it now attention, instead processing his brother’s words.

“They’re-”

“Fictional characters, yeah, yeah- Whatever you say, Jack.”

**Author's Note:**

> I just love this movie, and found it kind of sad that the brothers didn't confront Francis about it. I guess it kind of makes sense because he was in a way better state of mind, but idk.
> 
> My tribute to Wes Anderson
> 
> x)


End file.
